


For Whatever We Lose

by the_sky_is_forever



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M, Merman Grantaire, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sky_is_forever/pseuds/the_sky_is_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),<br/>It's always our self we find in the sea.”<br/>― E.E. Cummings</p><p>Enjolras is young when they move to a big house in the countryside. There wasn't supposed to be a merman in the pond at the bottom of the garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Whatever We Lose

**Author's Note:**

> warnings and such: ok ok enjolras is trans but his parents dont know nor does he tell them at any point in the fic therefore his parents call him by the name they gave him also he refers to himself as "she" for a good portion of the fic even after he and feuilly and grantaire begin discussing his transness so that's just a heads up but his pronouns do change when he ~accepts himself~ (yeah yikes ik ok so basically it is a very abrupt turn around from she to he in terms of the pronouns he uses for himself it's very "i'm going to do this" and so he does but i mean yeah just read it okay)
> 
> also yeah. grantaire's a merman who lives in enjolras' pond. so we all know how high-brow this work of fiction is.

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),

It's always our self we find in the sea.”

― E.E. Cummings

 

The new house is beautiful. Only five years old, Enjolras can’t really grasp that. She looks at the big building and hates it. This isn’t _home_. The entrance hall is cold, and the tile floor makes loud noises when she walks across it. There are pillars at the end of the room, and corridors leading off.

It’s… creepy. She finds it creepy.

“Marie!” her mother calls, from outside. “Come help carry your bags inside.” Enjolras does as her mother asks, obediently.

Her mother tells her that she can choose any room she wants, except for the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. That’s for her parents. There are a lot of bedrooms. Too many of them, in Enjolras’ opinion. Why does a house with only three people need so many bedrooms?

“Why have we come here?” she asks her mother, later that day, sitting on a stool in the kitchen as her mother cooks.

Her mother spares her a glance. “Don’t you like it?”

“I liked our old home,” Enjolras replies. She supposes that the house is nice. If only it weren’t so big.

“Why don’t you explore the gardens after dinner? I’m sure you’ll like them.”

Enjolras doubts that, but supposes she might as well.

The gardens are beautiful, also. Long, stretching, plains of grass, a secret, hidden rose garden with flower beds and benches, and, best of all, the summer house. Enjolras comes across the summer house as she wonders down the pathway. From a distance, it looks picturesque, it’s only as she walks down the steps and along the path to get to it, that she starts to find the trees and the water at the end of the path a little daunting.

The summer house sits on an island in the middle of the pond, with a wooden bridge over the water. It’s only small, a few paces across in diameter, but it’s nice. There are bible verses carved into the stone walls of the inside, as if, once, it was used as a chapel.

The water in the pond is a little murky, filled with pondweed, but the water seems to be quite deep. Enjolras wouldn’t like to fall in there. She looks back in the direction of the house, feeling thankful that she can still see the white walls and the windows from where she stands. It’s a comfort to know that her mother isn’t far away.

Still, the distance seems oddly long, and the quietness of this pond and summer house are starting to make her feel uneasy. Almost as if she’s being watched. She sets off back to the house at a run, refusing to look back. She almost trips on the stone steps, but then she keeps running. When she crashes into the house, her mother gives her a look, but doesn’t say anything beyond that.

Enjolras decides that she doesn’t want to go back to the summer house.

+

Eventually, Enjolras gets used to the house.

It takes her nearly a year to do so, constantly missing her old home, her old school, but she gets used to it. She’s home tutored now, by a kind man named Feuilly. He teaches her maths, English, science, history, French, Spanish, and art. She isn’t very good at art, but the things she creates make Feuilly smile, so that makes her feel like she’s accomplishing something.

Some days, Feuilly takes her out on walks in the countryside and teaches her about the flowers. He helps her to memorise which are poisonous and which can help prevent an infection. He shows her which ones are safe to touch, which she can put in a vase and keep in her bedroom, and, importantly, what to do when she gets stung by a nettle.

Enjolras likes Feuilly. Feuilly’s the first person that Enjolras tells that she prefers to be called Enjolras over Marie. He doesn’t laugh at her, and tell her not to be ridiculous. He smiles, and says, “Well, that’s a lovely name. I’ll make sure to remember that, Miss.”

Enjolras likes her home now. Her room is large, and her bed is comfortable. She has a view of one of the gardens from her window, and she knows that at the end of that garden is the summer house. She hasn’t been back there since that first day.

+

One day, Feuilly starts to teach her mythology. He tells her that it’s because she’s gotten so good at her languages that she deserves a treat. He talks for hours about mythological creatures, and the stories make Enjolras laugh. Stories of a man using string to prevent himself from getting lost as he searches a maze for a Minotaur. Stories of men getting lured in by a Siren’s call, attracted to the sound, only to be pulled over board and drowned. Stories of a man named Icarus who flew too close to the sun with his wings made of wax. Stories of the Greek Gods, the Roman Gods, the Egyptian Gods.

Enjolras loves all the stories, but Feuilly makes her promise not to tell her mother about them – especially the ones with death in them (which just so happen to be Enjolras’ favourites).

She’s seven now, and Enjolras yearns to learn all there is to know about the world. She longs to be free from her world of rules, her prim dresses and dainty shoes, and to live in a world where she can explore.

In the middle of summer, she goes back to the summer house. She’s not sure what prompts her to do so, as she hasn’t been there in two years. Feuilly gave her a day off from studying, telling her to enjoy herself. And she came here.

She leans on the wooden railing on the bridge and peers down into the murky water. The water stirs, and Enjolras takes a moment to wonder what fish could possibly live down here. It’s only a small pond. She then brushes the thought aside and wanders up the uneven steps to the summer house.

The door swings open with ease, and she goes into the old building, with its dirty glass windows and bible verses. Her footsteps echo crisply in the silence. She sits down on the wooden benches that run around the edge of the room.

She finds it peaceful, but she thinks she’d like it more if there was someone there with her. Feuilly’s chatter and laughter would bring her ease. She gets back up and wanders outside.

A splash sounds out from round the other side of the small summer house, and she quickly follows the sound, rushing round the little island.

“Is someone there?” she calls out, irrationally. It was likely just a fish. It sounded too big to be a fish. She raises one eyebrow. “If that’s a boy from the village, my mother will be very upset.” Another splash. She can’t see where it came from – perhaps someone’s throwing rocks from in the trees. “Feuilly? Is that you?”

Her eyes drift back to the water, and in the middle of the pond she catches sight of a tail. A long, silvery-green tail. Far too big to be a fish.

She promptly faints.

When she wakes, it’s to find a boy peering down at her, looking very concerned.

“Are you alright, boy?” he asks.

Enjolras frowns. “I’m not a boy!”

The boy laughs. “Right. And I’m not a merman!”

Enjolras jerks upright. Her eyes trail downwards, following the boys pale naked torso down to where his tail leads off so that the tip is resting in the water. The only thing Enjolras can think of to say is, “I’m a girl.”

“I’d know if you were,” the merman says.

“I am!” Enjolras exclaims. “If it were remotely decent, I’d show you my vagina to prove it!”

The merman all-out grins at that. “Having a vagina doesn’t make you a girl,” he says.

“And how would you know?” Enjolras asks. “You don’t have _anything_.”

“And I’m still a boy,” the merman says, proudly. “See? It ain’t got nothing to do with what you’ve got down there, and I can tell you ain’t a girl.”

Enjolras just frowns at him until he sighs, rolling his eyes and admitting defeat.

“Fine, then. What is your name… girl?”

“Mar- Enjolras,” she decides, halfway through giving the merman the name her mother calls her.

“Marenjolras?” the merman asks.

“No,” Enjolras says. “Just Enjolras.”

“Well that doesn’t sound like a girl’s name!” the merman declares.

“Names don’t have anything to do with it!” Enjolras protests. She scowls at this creature. “What’s your name, then?”

“Grantaire,” the merman says, sound proud.

Enjolras admits, “That’s a nice name.”

“Call me R,” Grantaire then says.

Enjolras beams. “You speak French?”

“Oui,” Grantaire, the merman, says.

Enjolras giggles at that.

In the distance, she can hear her mother calling her name. “I should go,” she says, regretfully. “Will you be here next time I come?”

“Of course,” Grantaire promises. “I waited two years to see you again, I can wait till tomorrow.”

Enjolras pulls a face. “I have lessons tomorrow – I might not be able to come.”

Grantaire smiles and slips off the embankment into the water. He causes ripples and slight waves. It makes Enjolras smile. “I can wait,” Grantaire tells her. “Goodbye, Enjolras.”

He then disappears under the water with a flick of his beautiful, silvery-green tail. Enjolras feels a pang of regret that she didn’t get to touch it.

 _Oh well, there’s always next time_ , she thinks as she picks herself up and dusts down her dress before running back up to the house.

+

“I met a merman,” Enjolras tells Feuilly the next day, when he arrives for lessons.

“Is that so?” Feuilly asks. He sounds amused. Enjolras can tell that Feuilly doesn’t believe her.

“It is so,” she says. She then frowns. “He told me that… being a girl ‘ain’t got nothing to do with what I’ve got down there.’”

“Hasn’t got anything,” Feuilly corrects.

“I know that,” she snaps. “I was quoting him.”

“Ah,” Feuilly says, understandingly.

“Well?” she demands. “Is it true?”

“It is,” Feuilly says. “You can be whatever feels right to you. If you feel like a boy, be a boy. If you feel like both, be both. If you feel like neither, then you can be neither.”

Enjolras frowns, thinking hard.

“If it helps,” Feuilly says, “I have a vagina, too.”

“But you’re a man!” Enjolras exclaims.

“I thought we just agreed: it ‘ain’t got nothing’ to do with what’s down there.”

Enjolras giggles, and lets the conversation drop as Feuilly makes her go over her eight times tables for the millionth time.

(That’s called hyperbole – Feuilly taught her about it in English class.)

+

Later that night, as Enjolras lies in bed, she can’t help but think that maybe a girl isn’t what she is after all.

+

A week later Enjolras goes back to visit Grantaire, the merman. She sits on the muddy bank of the island and tosses pebbles she collected along the way into the water.

“R?” she calls. “Are you there?”

It takes a moment, but his head pops up from beneath the water. He looks a little out of it, like he’s been sleeping. “You came back,” he says, sounding surprised.

“Of course I did,” Enjolras says. “I told you I would. Besides,” she continues, ignoring the look on Grantaire’s face as he swims – more glides – over to her, “I wanted to ask you a few things.”

He pulls himself out onto the grass and smiles at her. “Go on.”

“What did you mean, I’m not a girl?”

“I can sense these things. You’re a boy – I know it. It’s okay if you don’t know it yet. By the time you’re fifteen, I know you’ll have it all worked out.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can see glimpses of the future. In the future, you dress differently, and you look different, and you refer to yourself as a man.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Can I touch your tail?” she then asks.

Grantaire nods. He moves it towards her.

One of her hands darts out, but then it pauses, hesitant, over the scales. She wonders if it’ll be cold. Perhaps it will feel like what she imagines a snake would feel like.

Apparently, Grantaire is impatient, because he lifts his tail so that it comes into contact with her hand. Enjolras startles and pulls her hand back, automatically, but then her eyes meet Grantaire’s, and he gives her a reassuring look, so she tries again.

It’s unusual, to say the least.

“It’s wet,” she says with a laugh.

“Well,” Grantaire says, a glint in his eyes, “that would be because I put it in the water.”

Enjolras sticks her tongue out at him. Her fingers probe the slippery surface of his tail. Grantaire tells her that it tickles, making her blush.

“Grantaire, I’m scared to be a boy,” she tells him, suddenly.

He smiles at her. “Why?”

“I don’t think my mother would like it very much,” she confesses.

“It’s not about what your mother would like,” Grantaire tells her, seriously. “Do you feel like a girl?”

Enjolras thinks about it. “Not particularly,” she admits. “But I’m used to it,” she then says. “I do quite like the ribbons.” She blushes a dark red when she tells him that.

Grantaire grins. “I like the ribbons too,” he tells her, one wet hand reaching up. She flinches away, jumping to her feet. “Hey!” Grantaire exclaims. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“You’ll get my hair wet. It’s always horrible after it’s been wet.”

“No chance you’ll come swimming with me, then?” he teases.

Enjolras peers at the water. “In _there_?” she asks, indignantly. “It’s filled with mud and weeds.”

“Afraid you’ll get your pretty dress messy?”

She glares at him, and it surprises her when he actually looks contrite. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking away from her, out at the water. He risks a glance at her. “You’ve got quite a glare for such a small thing.” He looks curious, then. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Seven,” she says. “But I’m eight next month!”

“Is that so?” Grantaire asks, with a laugh. He has a nice laugh, Enjolras decides.

“How old are you?” she then asks him, peering down at him. She’s still standing.

Grantaire pulls a face. “I don’t know,” he tells her. “How old do I look?”

She frowns at him. “Sixteen?” she guesses. “I don’t really know very many teenagers; I don’t know what they look like all that well.”

“Then perhaps I am sixteen. Maybe I’m here to be your big brother,” he says with a grin.

“How can you not know how old you are?” she asks.

“Do you see parents around here?” he says, glancing across the surface of the pond. “I just… am.”

She takes a sudden step forwards as he slips back into the water. “Where are you going?” she demands.

He grins up at her. “I was drying out up there,” he says. “I prefer it in the water.”

Hesitantly, she sits back down on the bank, a little closer to the water. He holds a hand out to her, as he swims closer. She regards it, warily. “You aren’t going to pull me in, are you?”

He smirks. “Would I do that?”

“How should I know? I’ve only met you twice!” Enjolras frowns at him in the water, and then quickly makes up her mind and places her hand in his own, the way her mother taught her to take the hand of a gentleman, her fingers resting on his outstretched palm. Not that Grantaire could _ever_ be classed as a gentleman, Enjolras thinks snootily. His fingers curl around her own. Grantaire’s hands are cold, and she tells him this.

Grantaire replies, “Well, yours are too hot, warm-blooded creature of the land.”

Enjolras jerks her hand back, moodily. “There’s no need to bring race into this.”

Grantaire laughs, sounding delighted, and Enjolras can’t help but smile, a little ruefully.

“I should probably go,” she then admits. Grantaire bobs in the water. “I’ll come back soon?”

“You do that, kiddo,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras squints at him suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I would never!” Grantaire promises. The way he says it makes Enjolras think that he might be mocking her.

Getting to her feet, Enjolras brushes the dirt off the back of her dress, craning her neck to check she got it all. She then looks over to say goodbye to Grantaire, only to realise that he’s already gone, disappeared beneath the water of the pond. She takes a moment to frown at where he was, and then turns on her heel and skips up to the house.

Her mother gives her a disapproving look, and Enjolras notices how dirty her shoes are. She’s made to clean them, and then nothing more is said.

+

Shortly after Enjolras’ eighth birthday, it’s Feuilly who catches Enjolras trying on one of her father’s shirts, peering at herself in the mirror. It’s Feuilly who sits her down and asks if everything’s alright. It’s Feuilly whom she tells that she doesn’t think she wants to be a girl.

It’s Feuilly who regards her carefully after this admission, and says, “What do you want to do about that?” He says, “You’d have to talk to your mother if you want to stop wearing dresses.”

Enjolras looks down at the dress beneath her father’s shirt and says, “I… I don’t want to tell my mother.” Then she says, “But I hate looking so much like a girl,” as if it’s an awful thing to say. Her face goes pale, and her voice wobbles a little.

“Well,” Feuilly says, picking her up and popping her down on the bed, sitting down next to her, “How about we find something for you to wear that isn’t so… feminine, but is still, in your mother’s eyes, for girls?”

Enjolras looks up at him with wide eyes. “Could you do that?”

“Of course!” Feuilly says. He hesitates then, before gently asking, “Would you like me to start referring to you as he? Not in front of your parents, if you don’t want, but around you, and other people that don’t actually know your family?”

Enjolras looks down. “Um,” she says.

“You could refer to yourself as he, too,” Feuilly says. “That’s a step towards being who you really are.”

With scared eyes, Enjolras nods. “Y- Yeah,” he says, and his voice shakes horribly, but he says it. “Yes, please.”

Feuilly beams down at him. “You want a hug, kid?”

Enjolras nods, and then Feuilly’s arms are around him.

Feuilly says in a low voice, “I’m very proud of you. No matter what pronouns you want me to use. And when you’re ready to tell your parents, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“Thanks Feuilly,” Enjolras says, softly. He tugs at his dress when they pull back from the hug. “About those clothes…”

“How do you feel about skirts?” Feuilly asks, seriously. “You can wear shirts with skirts. I don’t want to panic you, but I don’t think your mother would be okay with you wearing trousers just yet. We’ll work up to it.”

Enjolras considers it. “Skirts could be nice.”

Feuilly grins. “I’ll tell your mother that you and I are going shopping. Meet me out front, by the car.”

Enjolras nods and hops to his feet. Pulling off his father’s shirt that is far too big, he quickly hangs it back up and then skips down the stairs and out the front door. He can hear Feuilly chuckle behind him, but it’s a fond laugh, so Enjolras’ smile grows brighter.

+

Enjolras waits on the wooden bridge, gathering his courage to face Grantaire for the first time since his talk with Feuilly and his wardrobe change. Enjolras checks that his shirt is still tucked into the skirt neatly, and then takes a deep breath. He continues across the bridge. “Grantaire?” he calls. His hair is tied up with a ribbon, keeping it out of his eyes.

He hears Grantaire before he sees him. “Hello, rich girl.”

Enjolras spins to look in the direction that Grantaire’s voice came from. “I’m not a girl,” he says, proudly.

The grin that Grantaire gives him at that is exactly what he’d expected. He watches as Grantaire hoists himself out onto the grass, sprawling across it. “That’s brilliant, Enjolras.”

“Isn’t it?” Enjolras says, laughing and sitting down with him.

“It is,” Grantaire agrees. “I like your skirt.”

Enjolras blushes and absentmindedly runs a hand across the fabric. “Feuilly helped me choose it.”

“And who is Feuilly?” Grantaire asks. One of his dark, sodden curls is falling into his eye, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered by it. It is making Enjolras itch to brush it out of the way, however.

“My teacher,” Enjolras tells him. “He’s very nice.” Enjolras blushes a little when he says that, and Grantaire arches an eyebrow.

“Do you have a crush on your teacher?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras says, perhaps a little too forcefully, because it makes Grantaire chuckle.

The merman lifts a hand in a lazy form of surrender. “Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Enjolras glares at him. “I’m not a _lady_ , and I don’t have a crush on Feuilly!” His face is getting redder, both in frustration with Grantaire, and embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, and he sounds like he means it, but Enjolras keeps scowling at him for good measure. “No, really,” Grantaire then says, sitting up straighter. “I’m sorry, Enjolras. That was a horrible thing for me to say. The lady bit, I mean. That was unforgiveable.”

Enjolras sulks for a moment longer, but then says, “If you take back that I have a crush on Feuilly, I’ll forgive you.”

That makes Grantaire laugh, and it makes Enjolras feel comfortable again, even if he does tug at his shirt for a long moment, feeling a little self-conscious. Grantaire reaches out and touches his hand, tentatively. “The shirt looks good on you,” he promises, “and of course, you don’t have a crush on Feuilly.”

Enjolras shoots him a wry smile, and he can’t help the way his cheeks go a little red at the look Grantaire is giving him.

When Grantaire starts singing, under his breath, “Enjolras and Feuilly sitting in a tree…” Enjolras gets to his feet and shoves Grantaire into the water.

Grantaire splashes under the surface, and when he comes up, he’s laughing, with the biggest grin on his face imaginable.

“Stop it!” Enjolras cries.

“Stop what? Shouting about how much you wanna kiss Feuilly?” Grantaire swims backwards as he says it, till he’s sitting pretty in the middle of the pond.

“I don’t! Stop it!”

“What you gonna do about it?” Grantaire asks. “You gonna come get me?

“Maybe I will!” Enjolras shouts at him. He starts pulling off his shoes, and then his hands go up to his white shirt, starting to unbutton it.

That’s when they hear someone yelling Enjolras’ name. The fact that it’s a male voice shouting “Enjolras” gives him a pretty good clue as to who it is coming looking for him. Enjolras darts a panicked look at Grantaire.

“Hide!” he hisses at the merman.

Grantaire ducks below the surface just as Feuilly comes round the summer house. Enjolras quickly steps into his shoes.

“Feuilly!” he exclaims.

“Were you talking to someone?” Feuilly asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Myself!” Enjolras says, quickly. “I was talking to myself.”

“Really? Because I’m sure I heard you telling someone to ‘stop it’.” Feuilly sounds incredibly disbelieving.

Enjolras remains silent.

Feuilly looks down at him. “What did you want yourself to stop doing?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras says, staring at the floor, determinedly. “I was just…”

“Are you okay? You know you can talk to me about anything. Especially about the whole,” he lowers his voice, “boy thing.”

Enjolras flushes bright red. “I’m fine.”

Feuilly bends down to his level. “Alright,” he says, attempting to force eye contact. “If you’re sure. Don’t spend too long down here, it’ll be dinner soon. We don’t want to make your mother angry.”

Enjolras just nods. He flashes a smile up at Feuilly, who smiles warmly back.

“I like this, by the way,” Feuilly then adds, flicking at the ribbon holding Enjolras’ hair back. He doesn’t even give Enjolras a chance to say thank you before he turns on his heel and starts heading back up to the house.

There’s a long pause after Feuilly’s exit, and then Grantaire says, “I see why you like him.”

Enjolras is helpless to do anything but agree in that moment, and so Grantaire’s teasing begins again. Enjolras doesn’t end up jumping into the lake to fight a merman that day, but it is a close call.

+

“Marie,” Enjolras’ mother says at dinner.

It’s said in a certain tone, that makes Enjolras stomach feel tight with apprehension. “Yes, Mother?” he says, politely.

“You’ve started wearing shirts,” Enjolras’ mother says.

“With skirts,” Enjolras says, quietly.

“Yes,” Enjolras’ mother says, drawing the word out. “With _skirts_.”

Enjolras clears his throat and says, as casually as he can, “Well, they’re becoming very popular among… women. I thought they were more sophisticated.”

Enjolras’ mother eyes him from across the table. She turns to his father. “Are you going to get in on this?”

“Let the girl wear what she wants, Élise,” he says, not even looking up from his plate, sounding bored of the conversation.

Enjolras’ mother scoffs and puts her knife and fork down sharply, pushing her plate away from her. “Marie, you will wear your dresses. They are what I have provided for you. You will be grateful for that.”

“Mother, I don’t want to wear dresses. I want to wear skirts,” Enjolras insists.

The silence in the room is filled with tension. Enjolras feels sick with nerves. His palms are sweaty.

“For _God’s_ sake, Élise, she can wear the damn skirts if she wants to,” Enjolras’ father snaps.

Enjolras’ mother purses her lips, but does let the subject drop, and later when Enjolras goes to his father’s study to say goodnight, he also says, quietly, “Thank you.”

Enjolras’ father gives him a long look. He doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his newspaper.

+

The years start to pass, and Enjolras still spends as much of his time as possible down at the little pond, sitting on the grassy bank and talking to Grantaire for hours at a time. There are more than a few close calls, where Feuilly or Grantaire’s mother nearly catches them, but they get by just fine for the most part.

Enjolras is fourteen when he realises that he might not feel completely platonic towards the merman at the bottom of his garden. It’s a damp day, and Enjolras knows that his skirt is going to be muddied when he stands up, but he ignores this in favour of sitting as close to Grantaire as he can while Grantaire is still in the water.

Grantaire says, “Have you ever kissed someone, Enjolras?”

Enjolras blinks, startled. He blushes. “Of course not.”

Grantaire grins. “Why ‘of course not’?”

Enjolras looks down at the ground, embarrassed. He says, “Do you think many girls are lining up to kiss a boy that looks like a girl? And the boys obviously don’t want to kiss a girl who thinks she’s a boy.” His voice is stained with anger at the memory of the boys’ cruelty.

Grantaire looks at him with sad eyes and reaches out to put a wet hand on his leg. “You’re not a girl who thinks she’s a boy, Enjolras,” he says, slowly. “You _are_ a boy. And if the boys and girls you know won’t kiss you for something that you can’t help then you shouldn’t want to kiss them anyway.”

Enjolras nods sullenly, thinking that just because he _shouldn’t_ doesn’t mean that he _doesn’t_. He looks up at his eyes meet Grantaire’s. Grantaire gives Enjolras a small, sad smile, and Enjolras moves so that he’s lying down, to be closer to Grantaire. Grantaire’s eyes widen, and his lips part slightly.

The ground is slightly wet beneath Enjolras’ stomach, but his hands wrap around the back of Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire’s cold hand is touching Enjolras’ face, and Enjolras doesn’t care. “So?” Enjolras asks, quietly breathing the words between them. “Are you going to kiss me?”

Grantaire’s face lights up. He lifts up slightly so that their faces are both more level and closer together, lips tantalisingly close. “Maybe you should kiss me,” he says, grinning.

“Maybe I will,” Enjolras replies, and then he does, pressing his lips against Grantaire’s before the merman has a chance to say anything in response. It’s a little odd and it sort of makes Enjolras feel like crying, but he can smell and feel Grantaire, so close to him, and it’s wonderful.

He pulls away, and sits back up, scooting backwards so his back leans against the stone wall of the summer house. He looks at Grantaire, who’s bobbing in the water somewhat uncertainly, and he says, “Thank you,” quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire says back, just as quiet. Then he asks, “What now?”

Enjolras shrugs. He gets to his feet, tugging on his skirt anxiously. “I should get back to the house. I’ll need to change before dinner.”

Grantaire watches him with careful eyes. “Okay,” he says, at last.

They never speak of it again.

+

Grantaire is floating in the weeds one week, watching the clouds overhead drift by, calmly waiting for Enjolras to visit again. He’s startled out of his daydreams when he hears footsteps crunching down the path towards the summer house, and Grantaire quickly dips down, just in case it’s not Enjolras.

He hears a woman and a man start talking as they stand on the wooden bridge over to the little island with the summer house.

The woman says, “She can’t stay here all her life,” to the man, sounding exhausted and a little defeated. Grantaire frowns, wondering who she’s talking about.

“I know that. She’s as much my daughter as yours – I’ve seen how discontented with this life she is. But where could she go? What could she do? She’s been home-schooled by that artist pretending to be a teacher for all her life. She’s not exactly well-prepared for the real world.”

“She’s sixteen, Jean,” the woman sighs, and Grantaire realises with a start that they must be talking about _Enjolras_. It’s odd to hear him referred to as a girl. It makes Grantaire angry to hear them speak of him like that.

“I know, Élise,” Jean, Enjolras’ father, says heavily. He runs a hand through his neat hair, messing it up a little. “What about your mother? In Paris? If she went and stayed with her for a while, she could see the world, feel more travelled, and still be safe. It might satisfy her need for… adventure.”

Enjolras’ mother hummed, thinking about it. “It would be nice for my mother to get to see her,” she says, thoughtfully.

Grantaire can’t move, shocked into stillness by the things they’re saying. He wants to scream. Enjolras can’t leave.

Hours later, when Enjolras comes sprinting down to the pond, almost in tears, hair streaming behind him, skirt tangling around his legs, Grantaire is still in shock.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras screams. “Grantaire!”

“I’m here,” Grantaire says, coming up to the bank.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, staring at the merman. “Grantaire, I don’t know what to do.”

Grantaire swallows. “What is the matter?” he asks.

“They’re sending me away,” Enjolras bursts out. “To _Paris_ , Grantaire. It’s so far away.”

“Well are you going?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras stares at him. “Why are you being like this?” he asks.

“Like what?” Grantaire asks, resting his arms on the grass while the rest of him stays in the water.

“So… _detached_ ,” Enjolras says.

“Well what am I supposed to do, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, a little angrily. “You’re obviously going to go to Paris, and you’ll have an amazing time, and probably never come back, and I’ll still be here, without you. But what does that matter? Your parents tell you to go, so you’ll go. Because you don’t want to disappoint your parents. That’s probably why they still call you by your birth name.”

Enjolras flinches. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. He finally says, “That’s not fair,” in a hurt tone. “You can’t throw shit like that at me. It’s my goddamn _choice_ who knows about my gender and it’s none of your fucking business, Grantaire. And for the record, you stupid fish, I _wasn’t_ actually sure whether I was going to go!” he shouts.

“Why not?” Grantaire asks, infuriatingly calm.

“Because I love you!” Enjolras explodes.

“Well, I love you, too!” Grantaire yells back.

And then Enjolras starts to cry. He sits down heavily on the wet grass, puts his head in his hands, and sobs. He hears a splashing noise, and then he’s being held tightly by Grantaire, dripping wet and cold. Enjolras leans into him and cries openly. “I don’t want to leave you,” Enjolras whimpers.

“So figure it out,” Grantaire says. “Find a way for me to come too.”

“How?” Enjolras asks, lifting a hand to attempt to wipe away his tears.  

“Magic,” Grantaire says, tiredly. He presses a kiss to Enjolras’ shoulder. “Enjolras, I’m so sorry for saying what I said. That was horrible of me. You not having told your parents doesn’t make you any less who you are, and that’s up to you whether you want to or not, and I don’t have any right to tell you differently.” He pauses, and then, in a quiet voice, adds, “I love you and Feuilly loves you and I hope that _you_ love you, and it doesn’t matter at all what your parents do and do not know.”

Enjolras breathes in deeply. “Grantaire I need to leave here so badly, but the thought of leaving you behind… I’d rather _die_ , Grantaire.”

“Don’t say that,” Grantaire says, fiercely. “We’ll figure it out.”

Enjolras turns to look at him. “Kiss me, Grantaire,” he says.

Grantaire just looks at him, and his hand comes up to tuck Enjolras’ hair behind his ear. “Enjolras,” he murmurs.

“Grantaire. Kiss me,” Enjolras repeats. “ _Please_.”

Grantaire leans in, lets his eyes fall almost shut, and presses a careful kiss to Enjolras’ cheek. He pulls back to see Enjolras with his eyes closed, lips parted, and Grantaire leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, too. This time he doesn’t entirely pull away, but his eyes flicker up to see Enjolras’ still closed, and then he closes his own completely as he closes the small distance between then, kissing Enjolras’ soft, full lips with a delicate reverence.

It’s gentle, filled with love, and a tear slips down Enjolras’ cheek.

“We’ll find a way,” Grantaire promises Enjolras. “You won’t have to choose between me and your life. We’ll find a way to have both.”

Enjolras nods, almost frantically.

“We’ll find a way,” Grantaire repeats, holding Enjolras close. He doesn’t know what else to do. “We’ll find a way.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading i really hope you enjoyed that!  
> (after the ending, they find a way for grantaire to get legs and come with him to paris - with feuilly's help because they tell feuilly and he comes with the two of them - and they never come back and live happily ever after. and they meet les amis)
> 
> i have a normal blog: nerds-are-cool and a writing blog: theskyis-forever so feel free to come have a chat or just have a look-see, whatever tickles your fancy
> 
> either way leave a comment if you have something to say and i hope you're having a good week :)  
> and, if you enjoyed this: [buy me a coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A831F9U)


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